


Royce

by B_Kilroy



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Gen, Inside the Gigahorse, Life of a Bloodbag, POV Original Character, Physical Abuse, Surgery, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2018-12-16 01:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11818788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Kilroy/pseuds/B_Kilroy
Summary: When War Boys view a blood bag aslow octane,it's about the biggest blessing they could bestow upon him without killing him.  No one wants to get juiced up by someone who hasn't even drawn blood before.  They become the absolute last choice, and the boys won't even take the full dose of blood they're due.  Royce can see right through the superstition, but as long as it grants him leniency, he'll let it go on for as long as it can.This is Royce's experience as a blood bag - the processing, the donations, the arrival and departure of the others just like him, and of the one time he wished above all else that he was high octane.  This is the story of the Chop Shop, the story of the Gigahorse, and the story of what happens to those the Fury Road leaves behind.





	1. Bait

**Author's Note:**

> In case this looks familiar to anyone, yes, this is a re-write of Royce, of the same name. I did not like it and really wanted to escape some of the obvious pitfalls I wrote myself into. Hopefully I'm not making it worse! Enjoy!

There was a lot outside of Bartertown proper where everyone dumped their vehicles. Well, not _everyone_ \- but certainly those who had one and couldn’t stash theirs within the walls. A small fraction of them had guards on them, but they were only concerned with their own. That was all their pay was worth. No guarantee someone would be grateful for having their vehicle saved and reward them for their efforts. 

The rest of the lot was decidedly free game if you could manage to evade Bartertown’s own patrol. Parts were nicked off cars and buggies and bikes, both small and large, anything worth anything to someone in Bartertown that would pay for it. Sometimes it was mirrors, tire plates, glass from the headlights. Sometimes it was spark plugs, belts, a fistful of wires, something that would leave the vehicle broken and the owner shit out of luck. If they couldn’t fix it, they’d have to sell it. On occasion, there’d be a _very_ happy vendor who managed to get the vehicle that was missing the very part he got traded ten minutes ago.

Only the bravest of the thieves - or perhaps just the most foolhardy - go for the vehicle itself. It requires skill, timing, and knowledge of their target’s mechanics to pull it off. Should you fail, you better be quick on your feet and disappear into the town or start running. Bartertown’s always looking for food for the maggot farms, and trying to steal a vehicle gives them a good reason to look your way.

On rare occasion, when the planets have aligned and the scales of karma tip in your favor, the perfect opportunity arises. There will be a moment, no matter how short it may be, when it would be stupid not to go for it. If you don’t deserve the reward, then surely the victim of the circumstances deserves the punishment. Very few people would let that opportunity pass by.

Royce certainly wouldn’t.

Bartertown wasn’t doing any good for him. There was no work to be done - or at least any that he was qualified for. Of course, he could do his best to offer work as a mercenary, as an extra body, but he knew he’d be Buzzard food before the week was out. The brothel was an option of last resort, but he would be more of a hole than what he’d prefer.

Begging didn’t work. Then again, it hardly worked for anyone. Definitely didn’t work if you weren’t young or old, weren’t handicapped, weren’t practicing your death rattle. Royce was miraculously full-life and able-bodied, and much of his clothing nearly had as many holes as there were intended to be. Instead of the upper class taking pity and helping him when he was a better investment than the others, they only wondered why he wasn’t one of them, and kept going on. They closed ranks. It was frustrating, of course, but there was no guarantee that Royce wouldn’t do the same thing. Share less, keep more for yourself.

Thievery became a way of life for him, and it had to quickly become an efficient practice. The other Bartertown rats were just as dangerous as the guards, if not more, because they would be fighting for access to the same supply. More thieves meant more guards and less supplies for them to get a hold of. Royce did better than most, despite their numbers; he was competing with much of the same people who found their success begging. Physically, he out-performed many of them, and his clothes and looks managed to let him pass off as someone better than he was. It worked for now, but he knew it wouldn’t work forever.

Today was a lot day. The Citadel had made their delivery yesterday, right on schedule. Like clockwork, everyone from all around came to Bartertown to get their own, and it was from the visitors that thieves made their biggest buck. Some of them didn’t know the protocol and thought there was safety in the number of vehicles piled up outside. _Surely_ theirs wouldn’t be touched with so many other choices! That assumption was _very_ wrong. It was just more vehicles to mill around and snatch stuff off of and out of, and every single one would get a visit. Royce’s satchel was empty save for the little food and canteen of water he had, and with any hope, it would be full to the brim at the end of the day.

He was walking through the poorly organized lines of vehicles when he saw it - a man moved to pocket his keys, but they fell instead and landed in the sand. The man couldn’t have heard it, otherwise he wouldn’t have kept walking. Royce didn’t give himself any time to wonder if anyone else heard it or saw it, and walked right behind him to scoop up the keys. He took a fistful of sand around them to muffle the sound and waited until the man had disappeared through the shanty to sift them out.

He knew what his parents would do. They’d go right after him - _an elbow for attention or something, a whisper in their ear_ \- and hope that he would offer something as a reward, a thanks. That’s only provided he didn’t think that they lifted the keys off of him in the first place. If they get something, they’re gracious. If they get nothing, they still hold their heads high and act as though the karma earned was good enough. 

It wouldn’t be for Royce; he thought karma was a myth. _“Getting in the good graces of people that are above you can get you further than you think,”_ he could hear his mother say, but he didn’t believe it at all. He couldn’t trust it anymore. For all the good they’ve done, look where it got his parents. They were killed some hundreds of days ago by some shitwaste who had everything but wanted more; only bones would be left by now, but he’s sure someone would have taken them for the marrow. 

Royce pushed memories of them out of his mind for now, not needing to feel guilty at all about his decision. He didn’t need them to question his choice to walk calmly over to the motorcycle that belonged to the man and straddle it as though he owned it. It was an out. If not an out, it was a means to something better, even if it was just coming back in a few days and trying to pawn it off. This was his big break, and he was not about to let it pass him by.

No one was watching. When he put the key in and turned the engine over, not one head turned. Perfect. He took care to back out of the spot, taking his time before aligning with a straight path out of the lot and into the waste. A quick look over his shoulder comforted him with the knowledge that no one was coming for him. Satisfied, he kicked the bike into gear and got the fuck out of there.

No one was yelling at him. No vehicles started behind him, no one was chasing him, but he shook all the same as though someone was. It felt like the heist of a century. It was the luckiest thing he had ever done, get this bike. Vehicles were worth their weight in food and water, and he knew that. Maybe the bike’s previous owner kept something around to fend people off, and hopefully there was still more than that.

Royce only stopped when he was a couple of hours south of Bartertown, camped out in a crack in the side of a ridge. The bike carried meager supplies, but he expected it. Some cloth, a spyglass, a couple of pressed meal bars, and a water bladder that was full of something that was _definitely_ not water. Altogether, it was hardly enough to stay away for more than a couple of days, but it’s enough to let him stay posted out here.

There’s little to do in the shade of the rock face besides fantasize about the bounty the bike could earn him and at the same time worry about the man catching him red-handed. Royce has no doubt the man would have walked if he could afford it. Without the bike, he has to be stranded and not too pleased about it. He can only hope that the man gets caught up in the madness of Bartertown and loses his way. If he doesn’t, that bike is going to need find a _very_ good place to hide before he can sell it.

What would he get? Maybe forty days worth of rations and water from the foodman, though he’d need to get it day by day - no way he was going to take the lump sum into his own little corner. That’s asking to get stabbed in the middle of the night. Maybe he shouldn’t be so hasty to trade it away. He could get work as a courier. Patrolman. Something to stretch out the vehicle’s worth. There was no easy choice in his mind, but he had a while to mull it over, and there was not much else to do but rest.

In the morning, Royce decided to choose on the way back. It was useless to worry over how each possibility could play out and try to act his way through them. Whatever would happen would happen, and he’d need to react on the fly. The worst case, he could only hope, was that it was back to the usual. The best case would be not having to worry about how he’d get his next meal. 

In the time he had between being compelled to sleep and rummaging again through what he knew he had, he camped on top of the ridge and looked out over the wastes with his spyglass. It was entirely possible to spot wreckage from a road skirmish, and if he was lucky enough, he’d be the first to snag anything worthwhile. Mirrors, guzz, contraband that he knew _someone_ would pay a fine price for.

It was in a circle that he spun - North, West, South, East - or at least he hoped he was keeping track of the directions. Royce wasn’t sure if he liked it or hated it. The chance of seeing something out there kept him going, but the frustration of finding nothing came at him from the other side. If nothing came, it was a waste of time and a waste of sweat. Sitting in the shade that the ridge provided him would be wise, but the _what if_ was too strong. If there was anything to take, he wanted it. 

At some point, surely in the afternoon, Royce became fixated on a shimmer on the horizon to the North-west. The spyglass wasn’t near big enough to reveal any more than the rolling waves of heat in the distance. Whatever it was had been the most interesting thing he’d seen, though it wasn’t saying a lot. What could it be? A car? Oil spill? _Water?_ Now he was just letting the heat get to his head.

Still, he felt compelled to watch. It was another _what if?_ that he couldn’t tear away from. His focus was so tight, in fact, that the faint rumbling that grew in his ears went unnoticed for too many minutes before it finally caught his attention and made him turn. 

The sight to the South-east was unmistakable, even without the spyglass. A giant plume of dust rose behind them. Bikes, cars, and a tow truck, with pale men piled on everywhere they could be - about a mile out. It was a Citadel warband, and it was coming right for him.

In the moment before Royce began to move, he wondered if his parents would think he deserved it.


	2. Capture

Royce scrambled down the cliff, barely stopping to throw his essentials into the saddle of his bike. He was counting seconds; they all have to be going faster than 60 miles an hour - a mile a minute - and that timer would never pause if he couldn’t get moving and couldn’t match their pace. As soon as the bike turned over, he kicked it into gear and sped out of the crack in the ridge, increasing in speed until he was sure he was in the highest gear and couldn’t get any faster. He pointed himself North back to Bartertown, figuring whatever fate met him there would be better than what he’d get at the Citadel.

It truly was futile to try to make an escape. The War Boys were driving vehicles with too-big, too-fast engines and enough guzzoline to chase him for longer than he could go. He had nothing up his sleeve, no maze to lose them in, no badlands to hinder progress, no weapon at all to defend himself. The fact that he was still moving was all he had, but that too would soon leave him. Maybe it would be best to stop and see what mercy they offered. Part of him knew they'd show none, and it would be best to get blown up and killed instead of being taken. 

He could see them in detail in the one remaining mirror on the bike. Jeering faces, impatient shaking and rattling of the hoods of the cars. There was a flash in the mirror as a biker crossed from one side to the other and pulled up nose-to-nose with him. Royce didn’t blame himself for wanting to pull away from the scarred, screaming face, but that was what did him in.

The bike couldn’t get its grip back right - the uneven friction of the sand made the front wheel of the bike wobble, oscillating with such force beyond what he could even begin to control. The body of the bike shook in response, and it wasn’t long before it finally lost balance and tossed him.

He flipped once, dirt and sky swapping places, before landing hard on his right arm. Something slipped out of its socket somewhere. The fine grit sanded away at skin and cloth as he slid and rolled out from the wreckage. It was too late to do anything by the time he finally came to a stop – the War Boys had surrounded him.

They had formed a circle around Royce, though many focused on the bike instead of him. He couldn’t even stand to meet the one that approached him, but it was quickly implied that he shouldn’t. The War Boy had a gun. Royce fell back on his knees and let it all happen. He was as good as dead already.

When they lifted him up, he couldn’t help but scream - his right shoulder suctioned back into place with a jolt of pain. They did well enough to shut him up by punching his stomach and taking his breath away. The two War Boys led him stiffly by his arms to the tow truck and hardly stopped when his trembling legs fell out from beneath him. Shackles found their way around his wrists, and they left him to his effects as they made their way back to their cars. The bike was on the tow truck, and it took him longer than he’d like to realize that his chains were attached to the truck’s bumper. 

It was too short, too methodical for it to even be fair. They were practiced. They were veterans at stealing people and their cars. The reason why came shortly into his head: the delivery to Bartertown was bait, and he was the grub on the hook.

The War Boys on the truck had been jeering at Royce, dehumanizing him with what insults they had and screaming at him when they ran out of them. If he tried hard enough, he could mute them, retreat into the growing ringing sound in his mind. It was already easy to feel as though he was only watching this happen to someone else. It was better to think that this wasn’t happening, at least not to him, but their words pulled Royce back into the moment.

“Are you ready?” One of them asked from the flatbed, eyes gleaming with excitement. 

_Wait, what? Ready?_ “Ready for what?” He asked, half-expecting no response at all. 

“You better be ready!” He shouted back as the vehicles around them began to pull out of the circle and head out in front of the truck - _they’re moving._ Royce moved as though he could somehow clamber his way onto the truck, but the vehicle pulled out of reach at the last second, and the War Boys bust out laughing again. 

Royce couldn’t catch up as the convoy moved - any time he’d get close, the truck would pull away. After a while, the War Boys started to hold out their hands for him to grab - _”come on!_ \- but it was just another part of the game. They were going to run him ragged, make it to where he couldn’t escape even if he had the strongest spirit in the world. He considered just falling and letting them drag him all the way back. The idea was quickly nixed after he had to shuffle around some _very_ jagged rocks that would no doubt do some damage if he was down there with them.

He didn’t know how long he had been running, but knew they hadn’t gone far - they were going no more than ten miles an hour. His legs screamed as he ran out of adrenaline and lost what he had to fuel them. Royce was losing the ability to keep up; he’d fall long before they could even see the Citadel. One of the War Boys must have noticed, pounded on the roof of the truck to make it stop. Royce’s momentum carried him into the rear of the vehicle, slamming into his ribs and taking away his breath again. 

The same War Boy dragged him onto the flatbed - apparently enough was enough. “Now here’s the deal, though - you’re not gonna fuckin’ try anything or you’re getting tossed back off and I don’t care how fast we’re moving.” He pulled Royce up to eye-level, the fierce expression highlighted by the black paint on his forehead and the scars carved down his face.

“Yeah,” was Royce’s response that at least told the Boy that he was listening, and it was good enough. His hands found their grip on the winch as the others took hold where they would. Someone slapped the roof of the cabin again, and with that, they were off. The driver sounded the horn - _speed up,_ was his message to the rest of the convoy. 

He was more numb than anything, too tired to emote. Still, the newfound silence and relative pause gave him time to process what was happening, what was _going_ to happen. They were taking him to the Citadel, and they wanted him alive. Nothing really mattered beyond that. He’d be there until the day he died, whether it be tomorrow or ten years on. He wasn’t sure what would be the best option. Whenever it was, he hoped it would be quick. 

The drive back was devastatingly long. It felt too long for them to have had any reason to go out so far, and for so little at that. Almost as though their only goal was to get him. That’s something his parents would say.

Eventually, and suddenly, a hand roughly spun him around and pulled at him to look out beyond the convoy. It was the same damn War Boy, and Royce didn’t need him to point out what was in front of them. The Citadel’s three towers stood tall in the sand plains, walled in from the North and the West by the Upper Shelf. They were behemoths unmatched by any other structure he had seen, and they made his heart drop.

As the convoy moved down the worn path to the plains, the mountainous spires grew taller, taller still until his head was bent back to take it all in. He could see the cranes, the _green_ \- Royce wasn’t sure he had seen anything like that in all his life. It would probably be the last. 

They were approaching the Last Road when the convoy stopped again to push him back off to run behind it. There was no fighting it, he figured. It was just another game that they played on their prisoners. Certainly seemed like it from the howls of laughter that came from the crew. 

Thankfully - _thankfully?_ , it wasn’t long before they were pulling into the center of the towers. They seemed taller still, casting much of the land into shadow. On one of them, he could see it - Immortan Joe’s insignia carved into the rockface - a gap in the teeth that reveals the void behind it. Pipes underneath, surely rusted from disuse.

It wasn’t until Royce leveled his head out that he saw them. In the dark, hiding in the cracks at the base of the towers and huddled in piles - many coming close to the road to observe the incoming party. They were the Wretched, and it was easy to understand the namesake. They were old, atrophied, crippled. Dirty, starving, thirsty. They even closed in behind the convoy as they continued through the passage. Their encroachment was enough for the War Boys to pull him back up on the truck. He wasn’t fooled, though - he was Citadel property to be maintained, not a human to be saved. 

The tow truck pulled onto the platform that led up into the bowels of the first tower; chains were deployed to pull up the rest of the vehicles. Guards were primed to defend the lift from any of the Wretched trying to coming up with them. Only a few made the attempt to cling on when they began to rise; they were promptly beaten away and fell back into the gathering crowd. Royce took the opportunity to step down from the truck. It earned him a smirk from the War Boy; he knew his place.

As the lift approached its higher destination, Royce could make out the machinations that fueled it. People using sheer force to rotate giant cogs - and something told him that the drums that had been growing in volume had something to do with them. There was something else - white heads popped over the edge to look down upon them, and it was only when they were finally pulled into place that he could see they were children. So many children, painted in white, pounding on the drums, managing the lift -

The War Boys tore him away from the platform and dragged him into the depths of the tower with a renewed animalistic energy. The pressure on his shoulder made him cry out in pain again, and the maniacal laughter he got in response only made his reaction worse. It was horrifying to be led into the dark damp tunnels; they knew every twist and turn like rats who had dug holes into the earth. It was in here that their evil began, and he was about to experience it.

It wasn’t long before they reached their destination. The War Boys changed his restraints, separated his wrists before shackling them independently and casting him down onto a stone table. There was one to either side of him holding his arms out, and he could feel another, perhaps two more securing his legs. The pace of Royce’s breath stayed high, _too_ high - if he kept it up, he knew he’d pass out, but that was probably preferable to whatever would come next.

“Heard you Boys brought me a little somethin’!” a voice came from the rear of the chamber; Royce could hear the footsteps come in closer. He hated it - no, _feared it_ immediately. The words were too nonchalant, too human. This person had power.

“Oh, yeah, Organic!” The War Boy to his right was proud of it. “Got him up on the Shelf, a few hours South of Bartertown. Good call heading out after the supply run.” Royce’s stomach plummeted - _this_ was karma. His own theory was confirmed.

“ _Very_ nice.” The man - _Organic?_ \- sat close to the table, sounding as though he was collecting all of his equipment, and Royce just wished that he’d get it over with, no matter what it was, but he didn’t. He spoke again. “Do you understand me?”

_Who? Me?_ Royce hesitated to answer - what if he was talking to someone else, and he’d -

“No?” Organic asked.

“Yeah. Yes,” Royce choked out the answer, and the man sounded satisfied with it.

“Good,” the man purred. Royce could feel Organic grow closer as he leaned in to address him. “Now I'm gonna ask a few questions, and if you know the answers you give 'em to me, alright?” Royce nodded.

“How many days are you?”

“...Seventy-four... seventy-five hundred.” 

He heard Organic mark down his answer on a stone tablet. There was another pause before Royce felt a stiff hand at the bottom of his ankle. Another was placed above it, and they chased each other up his back all the way to his head. “Height, ten hands… weight?” The man grumbled to himself, then answered the question for Royce. “140 pounds.” There was more marking on the stone tablet. 

“Got a name?”

He hesitated to answer, but knew there had to be a reason if he wanted it. “Royce.”

Organic hummed in response, and it quickly turned into a quiet, sinister chuckle. “Well, Royce, I don’t think you’ll have much use for _that_ anymore. Can you guess what we’ll call you instead?”

“What?”

“ _Blood bag._ ”

That was all he needed from Royce. What else he needed to know was of a physical nature, something he couldn’t trust without seeing for his own eyes. It wasn't hard to tell that the guy got his rocks off from what he did, and there was nothing he could do about it. Royce went through the motions he was told, turn this way, turn that way, bend, stretch. Piss in this cup, give up some blood. It was violating, intrusive, something Royce wished he could wake up from, but he knew he wouldn’t. There was a short reprieve to be had when they finally pulled his pants back up to his waist and Organic retreated to process his samples, though he knew there had to be something worse awaiting him when the man finally resumed his work.

It was deceptively calm in the chamber, perhaps only because of his own willingness to cooperate. There was evidence of past struggles all around him, in the claw marks and blood stains in the walls and on the table itself. Even the War Boys surrounding him were disappointed by the lack of action, and Royce wasn't sure if it was something he'd end up paying for in the future.

“Low octane,” he heard one of them utter like a curse. The War Boy to his right shuffled defensively - it devalued his _catch_. Royce knew what it meant to be called low octane. Feeble. Weak. Unremarkable. He could only give himself credit for getting this far without anyone else, even if the most _high octane_ thing he had done in a while was take that man's bike from Bartertown. There was certainly nothing that would convince them otherwise, given how he had acted from the moment they surrounded him. It didn't matter now.

Organic reappeared, only announced by his laughter and cheer. “Good news, boys! Fluids healthy, _blood o-neg!_ He's a universal donor!” The War Boys gave some small cheer of their own, happy for their brand new donor, but not wanting to ever be in the situation to use him. “Hold him tight.”

Royce could feel the chains tighten. A cloth came around his head to gag him. The healer approached again to pull his shirt up to his shoulders and give him a pat on the shoulder that made him shiver. “Right, son, you've done good for me so far. Keep it up and I'll give you a treat when we're done,” he said with a rusty chuckle. “Cut his hair.”

A War Boy came close to him and began to cut away with reckless abandon, getting it all down to some short length. Below him, a young boy collected the hair in a bundle - no older than 1200 days, still painted in white and garbed in the same uniform. Somewhere behind and above him, something buzzed to life and descended on his exposed back. Royce couldn't help but let out a loud groan against the unexpected pain and arch his back against it. Whatever the healer was doing back their slowly crept up Royce's back from the base of his spine to his shoulder blades, and it only felt worse as he continued. A rag wiped across it all when he was finished, soaked with his blood and sweat.

“And _now,_ for the grand finale,” Organic muttered to himself as bodies shifted around the room and someone else drew closer to Royce. “Do it.” It was something else he could detect, an intense heat growing closer and closer until it was jammed hard into the back of his neck and branded him with the fury of the sun. The agony grew beyond what he could handle - with something between a yelp and a gasp, he blacked out, and allowed them to do what they would. It wasn’t as though he could stop them anyways.


	3. Donation

Royce wasn’t sure how long he had been out, but from what he saw and felt, he could tell they were done. They had put him in a cage, suspended him off the chamber floor above a stone bench. He could see others like him lining the room; some of them were already _donating._ He did his best to ignore when they’d be coming around for him. They had chained him - bound his ankles together, kept the cuffs of shackles on his wrists in case they were to be bound as well. No doubt they’d rub his skin raw.

The more he came back to consciousness, the more his back and neck radiated pain. He tried to lift his shirt to rest the wounds on the cold metal of the cage, but it only intensified the feeling; the familiar texture of rust told him it wouldn’t be wise, anyways. It left him with no way to cope. Sleeping was a choice, but there was no guarantee of it. Until then, he took everything in.

To the left, he could see what _had_ to be the entrance - the light was too natural to come from any source but the sun. Light still shined in from above, though, muted by the chalky white painted around the hole. To the right was a shrine. A massive steel-wrought insignia of Immortan Joe towered over a collection of steering wheels. Royce almost thought of it as practical; this is the first place War Boys would go when they come back, and if they needed a donor, they’d find them here.

Out and beyond him, and close on his flanks, were there other blood bags and what few empty cages there were. Some had been better off, some had been worse, but their prison was the great equalizer here. He could see tattoos on the backs of those who were hanging, connected by crimson tubes to War Boys below; they were all equally complex, no doubt the same that was now inked onto his body and everyone else’s. It was all that mattered of them anymore.

After some time had passed, a cart came rumbling through the chamber directed by a couple of younger War Boys. He could see a massive container full of paste on top, and a drum barrel below. _Feeding time,_ Royce guessed. A man followed them that looked nothing like the average War Boy - he could only guess from the bandolier of medical tools that it was Organic. It was a short moment before he met Royce’s eyes with mock happiness and made his way over. 

The man was too fast about it, too eager to come. As soon as he was in arm’s reach, Organic grabbed the cage and shook him about. It forced an odd noise out of Royce, much to the doctor’s satisfaction, and he braced himself until the man stopped. “Cozy, innit?” the man laughed to himself, not expecting an answer to follow. “Alright, hey! - got your treat.” He offered a lazy, vacant smile as he pulled a canteen out of his satchel and offered it between the bars.

Royce hesitated before taking it. He opened it and gave the contents a whiff - clean. Wasn’t piss, at least. A small sip of the liquid was enough to make him cough and retch, and make Organic laugh. “You’ll want more - it’ll make the pain a bit more bearable for a while. It’s a _full dose._ Drink up.”

He had no reason to trust the man. After all, here he was, locked up for use as a blood bag. Trust didn’t need to exist in here. Trust couldn’t even get so far. At least Organic wouldn’t want him dead. It would have been a waste of time just to set Royce up to be poisoned. It’s even more of a waste to give him any comfort, though he guessed that if everyone else had put up a fight, his complacency was a welcome change. The gift was an oddly human gesture for someone who had taken to stripping away the humanity of others - Royce’s own, included.

Royce decided to waste no more time thinking about it and did his best to down the rest of the container’s contents. The liquid burned all the way down, stinging, bitter, fetid, surely something people weren’t meant to put in their mouths. Organic seemed pleased enough to receive the empty canteen, paying no mind to what noises Royce made in an attempt to keep it all down. There was work to be done elsewhere, and Royce got no more attention than what he required.

He managed to settle down by the time the cart had worked its way towards him. It was what he had guessed - gruel and water. The War Boys filled two cans from the supply and hooked them onto the side of the cage before stepping away and finishing their circuit. The food was of a much less dubious quality than whatever Organic gave him, and bore some vague similarities to the coarse meal bars that were common in Bartertown. Royce figured he’d get it all out of the way. He downed it all before making sure the cans were back in place for collection, whenever that would be.

The world outside his cage went on, slowing as the sun sank out of the sky and dimmed the lights in the blood bank. Blood bags were tucked back up into their cages, either unable to provide any more juice or because Organic figured enough was enough. As he watched, he couldn’t help but feel the growing compulsion to sleep. It wasn’t normal - probably had to do with what Organic gave him. Royce decided not to fight it. There was no telling if sleep was a given or a luxury.

It didn’t take long for him to sink into a deep sleep. Nothing disturbed him; not Organic shaking the cage once more to satisfy himself, not the crying War Pup followed out of the chamber by an older Boy yelling about how crying was _mediocre,_ and not the conversations that go on in the dark when the chamber is cleared and no one is around except for the blood bags.

_”Hey, new guy!”_ a blood bag half-yelled, half-whispered across the chamber. _”Psst!”_

_”Forget it, Organic drugged him,”_ one sighed near Royce. _”He’ll be out until tomorrow.”_

_”Great.”_ A third voice dripped with sarcasm. _”No news, then.”_

_”Think anything_ really _changes out there? Think it’ll matter to you anyways?”_

_”Fuck yourself,”_ he returned a grumble.

_”Why wasn’t_ I drugged?” another complained aloud, clearly aware of the perks that would have come with it.

_”Because you probably fought them comin’ in. You know he fancies them that fall into line. Treats ‘em like a pet, as long as they’ll last. No tellin’ what’ll happen with him.”_

\- - - 

It wasn’t long after Royce woke up, still groggy from whatever Organic gave him, that the floor of the cage gave way and he fell out into position for donation. He couldn’t fight it - his body was too loose and his mind had hardly been all there. There was nothing he could do. A pair of hands pulled his shirt down to reveal the tattoo, shoved his arms behind his back and chained his wrists together; another reached at his collarbone and popped something into his skin. When Royce looked up - down, really - he could see it was the blood tube, hooking into a War Pup. The boy was out cold. 

Organic was there, and he sported a much more grave expression than yesterday. Royce could guess why. It didn’t look good. The two met eye contact but it quickly fell apart. “Hopefully there’s a pair of eyes on him,” the doctor sighed, “but if there ain’t, and he starts to shake, shout for someone. If you don’t, you might as well be bleedin’ into a corpse. Don’t want to lose a universal.” That was all Royce was told before the man walked away, indeed disappearing around a corner to leave the connected pair alone.

It was a distinctly alien feeling - _donating, that is_ \- and Royce had no strength to fight against it. He could feel blood pool into his head and press against the hangover of the drugs, and could feel the blood leave his body if he tried hard enough. He wondered if the War Pup could feel it entering. It wasn’t likely; Royce could tell that he was unconscious, wasn’t stirring, even after watching for minutes because what else would he do? 

After a while, a younger War Pup came along - properly a child, had to be less than 2000 days old. The two of them must have been friends, whatever Pups were to each other. He sat with the older one and simply watched him. It was odd for Royce to observe, for him to only be staring, but he supposed physical affection wasn’t something they taught here.

They were soon joined by a proper War Boy, one who could meet Royce dead in the eye and kill him with looks alone. He could hear him fuming over the unconscious Pup, crouching to observe him closer, sighing. “You need _high octane._ Not this…” The boy looked up to face Royce, who did his best to wear a blank face. “ _Smeg._ ” He stayed at the bench for a minute longer, but disappeared shortly.

Things got quiet. The silent pup guarded his friend who still hadn’t stirred. Royce was starting to feel _it_ \- the growing loss of blood. It was easier to keep his head slack, let his eyes shrink closed. There was a sort of peace his body had reached about it. He had no idea if it was normal, and still, it was a matter if it was good or not.

As his eyes were about to close, something stirred below him. It was the pup he was hooked up to, sure enough - he was shaking - and the quiet one with him had frozen. Didn’t know what to do. They met eye contact, and the pup ran away wide-eyed into the depths of the chamber, leaving Royce alone to wonder where he was going. Hopefully to Organic. If the boy isn’t going for him, he’s gonna need to shout, or something bad will happen.

There’s a shiver - to have all those eyes on him, to have the machinations of the chamber grind to a halt to wonder _why_ is that blood bag shouting? To _save his own life?_ He’d almost rather die. It was easy enough. Just had to keep swinging. Better now than years from now. Escape his prison, expedite his sentence. Of course, that would mean coming to terms with the void awaiting him - Royce shivered again, and yelled.

“ _ORGANIC!_ ” And the world stood stock still. The eyes fell on him, bewildered donors and surprised, exasperated War Boys alike. He heard nothing until they began to notice the pup below seize with every pump of blood through his body. The attention fell off him as whoever could swarmed around the body, some trying to help, some posing with their hands over their heads, fingers interlocked. They were watching him die.

“ _Oi!_ Move it, the lot of ya!” Organic emerged from the depths of the chamber followed by the mute pup. He bullied his way through the crowd until he was at the bench, and he paused before getting to work. The doctor tried to get the boy onto his side, looked into his mouth, but otherwise couldn’t - didn’t do anything else. He continued to shake for a few more minutes before he finally stopped.

Organic immediately reached into the boy’s mouth with his finger, probing around until he pulled it out, accompanied by a slow stream of vomit. He wiped his hand on his pants and felt around the boy’s neck for a pulse. After a short moment, he dove his ear in towards the boy’s mouth - check for breathing. It was another minute before the doctor backed off, sighed. The War Boys around them who hadn’t already raised their hands in salute did so. “ _Witness._ ”

Royce gulped against the sensation of Organic closing the cannula in his neck and tugging the tube out of its port. The War Boys remained gathered until they were either satisfied with their tribute or were dismissed. They were in the way, but didn’t leave without one final look of disgust at the blood bag that had failed them. A pair of Organic’s own boys took the limp body out of the chamber - “ _you know what to do with him._ ” Another pair did their best to un-prep Royce and clumsily shove him back into his cage before hanging two things on his cage - chalk white panels of metal. 

He felt safe back up in the cage, safe enough to consciously succumb to the exhaustion. It would be a while before they wanted him again, he was sure - especially after having one of them die below him on his first day. Royce supposed he should care more, but knew it was a waste. His sickness could have been terminal from the start. The boy could have grown up to be like the rest of them. He grimaced at the thought of spinning the death into a positive. That was enough thinking, he decided, and rested against the cool metal of the cage. The rest was good while he could get it. 

Royce was disturbed later by the first of the meal rounds. When they got around to him, they gave him the same gruel and water, but also pulled something out from the inside of the cart - a handful of greens cut out of a head of lettuce. They crammed it into a third cup and put that on the outside of his cage as well, taking one of the white plates with them. He understood the mechanics of the exchange - donors get two plates, one plate is for something extra in his bowl. The other plate? Either another meal or meant to say he’s freshly used. 

He went first for the lettuce, and couldn’t help but just stare at it. _Green. Fresh._ A quality beyond anything he had ever seen at Bartertown. It was even cool to the touch, untarnished by bruising or browning or sand. Direct from the source. Royce put a leaf into his mouth, savored the clean flavor, burst of moisture as he bit into the white vein. It was harder to restrain himself with each passing bite, and he quickly went through the rest of the rations until the gruel had washed the taste of green out of his mouth, and the water replaced the gruel with the taste of rocks and lead.

With nothing else to eat or bleed into, Royce found himself with nothing else to do but sleep, and ponder the increasingly worrisome question of waste disposal.

\---

It was late by the time he could manage to keep his eyes open. The light was quickly leaving the chamber, and the extinguishing of the lanterns didn’t help. On Organic’s way out of the chamber, he offered a look that Royce couldn’t quite decipher, but he figured it was best not to spend too much time thinking about it. The whole night shouldn’t be dedicated to him. 

When all the War Boys had left the chamber, and the blood bags had been left alone to their own effects for a good matter of time, one of them spoke up from across the chamber. “Psst! New guy, you awake?” 

It was a startling call. There was no hiding himself; it was still light enough to tell who from who, and he couldn’t fall into the darkness. They knew he could hear, knew he could speak. He was tempted not to speak and allow them to make of him what he would, but the pressure of the what-if made him respond. “What?”

Royce could see the blood bag sigh in relief, and others shifted to pay attention to the conversation. He took note of that. The man continued: “Any news?”

“From where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Nothing.” There was, of course, _no news._ Only more death, only things getting worse. Schedules remained the same. People remained the same. In total, it was nothing that mattered to them whether they were in here or not. It wasn’t like it mattered anyway - not like they could act on it.

“Damn.” The man slumped back down into a ball - after all, what else could he expect as an answer?

A voice addressed him from close to his left. “How are you holding up?”

“Well enough,” Royce supposed. The drugs had worn off, and the pain in his back had receded to a manageable dull ache. He reached up to the base of his neck, could feel the tender flesh that the brand had forced to rise. There was no wondering what it was. He wasn’t drowsy from blood loss anymore; the food had done its job, and he had managed to empty his body enough to make room for what scant supplies would come his way.

“Good,” the man hummed. “You know, hardly anyone kills a War Boy their first time. Make sure you do less of that.”

“They’ll kill me?” Obvious question.

“Nope,” he shook his head. “He’ll give you to the War Boys. And _then_ they’ll kill you.”

Royce swallowed hard. “I’ll keep that in mind.”


	4. Schedule

Royce didn’t donate for another four days. Organic himself came by to pluck the chalky metal plate off the cage. It wasn’t long after that they wanted his blood again.

This time was different; he had full control of his body. He was lucid. It was scary to know what was coming. He expected something to go wrong. Maybe a bone would break, or the chain around his feet would fail and Royce would piledrive himself into the ground. His plans to drop out safely were interrupted by a shock to the base of his spine. It made him seize up and tense, and it was then that his constricted form fell into position. He could see a War Boy disappear with a metal rod - its pronged tip was connected by a spark of electricity.

This recipient, at least, was older and conscious. Both better than the first time, less chance of dying. Maybe the first one was a fluke. Could have been born with it. It’s possible; almost every War Boy has something physically wrong with him. Maybe they just can’t see inside to find out what’s wrong there. 

He relented to the harsh yanking of his shirt over his head, the restraint of his hands. It was still weird to watch them re-insert the tube into the needle embedded in his skin, still weird to feel the gentle tug of blood leaving his body. Royce followed the other end as they plugged it into the War Boy’s wrist. He wondered what the boy had done. What he _will_ do.

Luckily, not much happened over the hours that his blood drained into the body below him. Royce grew dizzy and edged into unconsciousness, but the watchers had made a science out of it. They knew when enough was enough, knew not to waste a universal donor. He was back inside his cage before he knew what happened. Another two chalk-white plates were put up on the bars.

Reliably, the first plate was exchanged again for special rations, and he did his best to down the lot of rations and water. When the cups were set back on the bars of the cage, Royce curled back up into himself and let sleep take him. It was difficult to stay awake, but he didn’t care. He was more inclined to sleep even beyond what his body needed; the blind passage of time was more welcome than staring down skeletons and others just like him until the next time to bleed.

The environment left him relatively spared, barring Organic’s few impulsive moves to rattle and swing his cage. The War Boys that were around weren’t in the mood to fuck around, and conversations between the blood bags managed to escape him. He didn’t care; those who wanted them had them. They had gotten all they needed out of him.

Two days after his second bleeding, a silence crept its way into the chamber. The usual haunt of healthy War Boys had disappeared, and all those that remained seemed to simmer in anticipation of _something._ It was clearly something Royce wasn’t privy to. Still, he could see the blood bags and their own reactions, which were practically non-existent. Why didn’t _they_ care?

The answer still eluded him when he saw _her_ enter the chamber, trailed by three other War Boys. She was the first woman he had seen so far inside the Citadel. The woman didn’t have the white paint the Boys had - she had the black paint, though. Royce could see that her left arm had been replaced with a metal gauntlet. He wondered how many men she had killed with it.

They marched through the chamber towards the shrine of steering wheels, each of them picking their own before paying tribute to the insignia towering over them. With the same amount of fanfare, they disappeared from the halls, and life seeped back in. From beyond the rock walls, he could hear the machinations of the garage. The lift was going down.

After another moment, he could hear chanting - it was muffled, but it was clear that _many_ people were participating. It had to be the Wretched. They were soon silenced, and the rumbling was replaced by a much more pronounced voice. Immortan Joe’s. Royce listened as he sent off the _War Rig,_ and saluted _Imperator Furiosa_ and his _half-life War Boys._ He could hear the War Boys respond with chants of _vee-eight_ right outside the chamber. That’s where they had all gone.

When the world returned to silence, it was still unnatural. Something else was still to come. Correct in his prediction, he could hear something rumble deep within the rocks. It was something he couldn’t quite place until he remembered the pipes. Royce had thought they weren’t being used, but here they were. It was water, _had_ to be. Nothing had a rushing, voiding sound quite like it.

And as soon as it had come, it was gone. The crowd outside turned into chaos. _Do not, my friends, become addicted to water._ Royce didn’t even know what to think about that. The chaos of the Wretched eventually calmed down, and as it did, the Organic Mechanic’s lair came back to life - as much as it could. Wasn’t much to work with in the first place.

It was night when he asked: “What’s the deal with whoever came through? Was that-”

“ _Imperator Furiosa?_ Yep. You’d think you’d put two and two together but I guess they don’t teach that much nowadays.” One of the snarkier blood bags managed to earn a small chuckle from the others. 

Royce bit his tongue, knowing trading barbs would get them nowhere. Still, he continued. “Why aren’t you guys afraid of her? All the War Boys had sticks up their asses.”

The blood bag to his left piped up. “She’s a hard ass with the boys. No one fucks with her. For some reason, she doesn’t fuck with _us_ like the other imperators. Maybe she pities us.” The comment got its own quiet laughter - that couldn’t be the truth. “Maybe she just doesn’t give a damn.” His chains rattled as he shrugged. “It’s all rumor.”

Given that it was _all rumor,_ Royce figured it would be no good to pay anything else about her any attention. Still, it wasn’t as though any information would prove of use to him. He was stuck in a cage with nowhere else to go, and there would be no catching her alone. What would Royce even do? What would there be to say that could change where he was and what was happening? Nothing.

Ten days and two bleedings later, the same event happened again. Royce deemed the schedule reliable when another ten days brought Imperator Furiosa and her War Boys back through the chamber. They became a better way to count his time here. 28 days so far. It was to humor himself more than anything else; it wasn’t as though he was measuring the days towards his release. The number could only be used to represent how long he had survived, and he wasn’t sure whether or not he really wanted that number to grow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how short the chapter is. I've been rattling my brains and dancing around this chapter for a long time. Going through this as a re-write is difficult as the re-write approaches what's essentially where it will converge into the original. Hopefully, this will clean my plate and allow me to push forward creatively.


End file.
